Used by permission of _St. Nicholas_.
“I guess you can get the ell roof shingled now, ’most any old time,”
cried Homer Tidd. He bounced in at the kitchen door. A blast of icy
wind followed him.
“Gracious! shet the door, Homer, an’ then tell me your news.” His
mother shivered and pulled a little brown shawl tighter about her
shoulders. The boy planted himself behind the stove and laid his
mittened hands comfortably around the pipe. “Oh, I’ve made a great
deal, Mother.” Homer’s freckled face glowed with satisfaction.
“What?” asked Mrs. Tidd.
“Did you see the man that jest druv out o’ the yard?”
“No, I didn’t, Homer.”
“Well, ’twas Mr. Richards--the Mr. Richards o’ Finch & Richards, the
big market folks over in the city.”
“Has he bought your Thanksgivin’ turkeys?”
“He hain’t bought ’em for Thanksgivin’.”
“Well, what are you so set up about, boy?”
“He’s rented the hull flock. He’s to pay me three dollars a day for
them, then he’s goin’ to buy them all for Christmas.”
“Land sakes! Three dollars a day.” Mrs. Tidd dropped one side of a
pan of apples she was carrying, and some of them went rolling about
the kitchen floor.
Homer nodded.
“For how long?” she asked eagerly.
“For a week.” Homer’s freckles disappeared in the crimson glow of
enthusiasm that overspread his face.
“Eighteen dollars for nothin’ but exhibitin’ a bunch o’ turkeys!
Seems to me some folks must have money to throw away.” Mrs. Tidd
stared perplexedly over the top of her glasses.
“I’ll tell you all about it, Mother.” Homer took a chair and planted
his feet on the edge of the oven. “Mr. Richards is goin’ to have a
great Thanksgivin’ food show, an’ he wants a flock o’ live turkeys.
He’s been drivin’ round the country lookin’ for some. The postmaster
sent him here. He told him about Dan’l Webster’s tricks.”
“They don’t make Dan’l any better eatin’,” objected his mother.
“Maybe not. But don’t you see? Well!”
Homer’s laugh was an embarrassed one. “I’m goin’ to put Dan’l an’
Gettysburg through their tricks right in the store window.”
“You ben’t?” and the mother looked in rapt admiration at her clever
son.
“I be!” answered Homer, triumphantly.
“I don’t know, boy, jest what I think o’ it,” said his mother,
slowly. “’Tain’t exactly a--a gentlemanly sort o’ thing to do; be it?”
“I reckon I ben’t a gentleman, Mother,” replied Homer, with his jolly
laugh.
“Tell me all about it.”
“Well, I was feedin’ the turkeys when Mr. Richards druv in. He said
he heered I had some trick turkeys, an’ he’d like to see ’em. Lucky
enough, I hadn’t fed ’em; they was awful hungry, an’ I tell you they
never did their tricks better.”
“What did Mr. Richards say?”
“He thought it was the most amazin’ thing he’d ever seen in his life.
He said he wouldn’t have believed turkeys had enough gumption in them
to learn a trick o’ any kind.”
“Did you tell him how you’d fussed with them ever since they was
little chicks?”
“I did. He wuz real interested, an’ he offered me three dollars to
give a show three times a day. He’s got a window half as big as this
kitchen. He’ll have it wired in, an’ the turkeys’ll stay there at
his expense. Along before Christmas he’ll give me twenty-two cents a
pound for ’em.”
“Well, I vow, Homer, it’s pretty good pay.”
“Mr. Richards give me a commutation on the railroad. He’s to send
after the turkeys an’ bring ’em back, so I won’t have any expense.”
Homer rose and sauntered about the kitchen, picking up the apples
that had rolled in all directions over the floor.
A week before Thanksgiving, the corner in front of Finch & Richard’s
great market looked as it was wont to look on circus day: only the
eyes of the crowds were not turned expectantly up Main Street; they
were riveted on a window in the big store. Passers-by tramped out
into the snowy street when they reached the mob at the corner. The
front of the store was decorated with a fringe of plump turkeys. One
window had held a glowing mountain of fruit and vegetables arranged
by someone with a keen eye to colour--monstrous pumpkins, splendid
purple cabbages, rosy apples and russet pears, green and purple
grapes, snowy stalks of celery, and corn ears yellow as sunshine.
Crimson beets neighboured with snowy parsnips, scarlet carrots, and
silk-wrapped onions. Egg-plants, gleaming like deep-hued amethysts,
circled about magnificent cauliflowers, while red and yellow bananas
made gay mosaic walks through the fruit mountain. Wherever a crack or
a cranny had been left was a mound of ruby cranberries, fine raisin
bunches, or brown nuts.
It was a remarkable display of American products; yet, after the
first “Ah” of admiration, people passed on to the farther window,
where six plump turkeys, supremely innocent of a feast-day fête,
flapped their wings or gobbled impertinently when a small boy laid
his nose flat against the window. Three times a day the crowd
grew twenty deep. It laughed and shouted and elbowed one another
good-naturedly, for the Thanksgiving spirit was abroad. Men tossed
children up on their stalwart shoulders, then small hands clapped
ecstatically, and small legs kicked with wild enthusiasm.
The hero of the hour was a freckled, redhaired boy, who came
leaping through a wire door with an old broom over his shoulders.
Every turkey waited for him eagerly, hungrily! They knew that each
old, familiar trick--learned away back in chickhood--would earn a
good feed. When the freckled boy began to whistle, or when his voice
rang out in a shrill order, it was the signal for Dan’l Webster, for
Gettysburg, for Amanda Ann, Mehitable, Nancy, or Farragut to step to
the center of the stage and do some irresistibly funny turn with a
turkey’s bland solemnity. None of the birds had attacks of stage
fright--their acting was as self-possessed as if they were in the old
farm yard with no audience present but Mrs. Tidd to lean smiling over
the fence with a word of praise, and the coveted handful of golden
corn.
With every performance the crowd grew more dense, the applause more
uproarious, and the Thanksgiving trade at Finch & Richard’s bigger
than it had been in years. Each night Homer took the last train home,
tired but happy, for three crisp greenbacks were added to the roll in
his small, shabby wallet.
Two days before Thanksgiving, Homer, in his blue overalls and faded
sweater, was busy at work. The gray of the dawn was just creeping
into the east, while the boy went hurrying through his chores. There
was still a man’s work to be done before he took the ten o’clock
train to town; besides, he had promised to help his mother about the
house. His grandfather, an uncle, an aunt, and three small cousins
were coming to eat their Thanksgiving feast at the old farmhouse.
Homer whistled gaily, while he bedded the creatures with fresh straw.
The whistle trailed into an indistinct trill; the boy felt a pang of
loneliness as he glanced into the turkey-pen. There was nobody there
but old Mother Salvia. Homer tossed her a handful of corn. “Poor old
lady, I s’pose you’re lonesome, ain’t you, now? Never mind; when
spring comes you’ll be scratchin’ around with a hull raft of nice
little chickies at your heels. We’ll teach them a fine trick or two,
won’t we, old Salvia?”
Salvia clucked over the corn appreciatively.
“Homer, Homer, come here quick.”
Down the frozen path through the yard came Mrs. Tidd, with the little
brown shawl wrapped tightly about her head. She fluttered a yellow
envelope in her hand.
“Homer boy, it’s a telegraph come. I can’t read it; I’ve mislaid my
glasses.”
Homer was by her side in a minute, tearing open the flimsy envelope.
“It’s from Finch & Richards, Mother,” he cried excitedly. “They say,
‘Take the first train to town without fail.’”
“What do you s’pose they want you for?” asked Mrs. Tidd, with a very
anxious face.
“P’r’aps the store’s burned down,” gasped Homer. He brushed one rough
hand across his eyes. “Poor Dan’l Webster an’ Gettysburg! I didn’t
know anybody could set so much store by turkeys.”
“Maybe ’t ain’t nothin’ bad, Homer,” Mrs. Tidd laid her hand upon
his shoulder. “Maybe they want you to give an extra early show or
somethin’.” She suggested it cheerfully.
“Maybe,” echoed Homer. “But, Mother, I’ve got to hurry to catch that
7:30 train.”
“Let me go with you, Homer.”
“You don’t need to,” cried the boy. “It probably ain’t nothin’
serious.”
“I’m goin’,” cried Mrs. Tidd decisively; “you don’t s’pose I could
stay here doin’ nothin’ but waitin’ an’ wond’rin’?”
Mrs. Tidd and Homer caught a car at the city depot. Five minutes
later they stood in front of Finch & Richards’ big market.
“Mother,” whispered the boy, as he stepped off the car, “Mother, my
turkeys! They’re not there! Something’s happened. See the crowd.”
They pushed their way through a mob that was peering in at the
windows, and through the windows of locked doors. The row of plump
turkeys was not hung this morning under the big sign; the magnificent
window display of fruit and vegetables had been ruthlessly demolished.
“What do you s’pose can have happened?” whispered Mrs. Tidd, while
they waited for a clerk to come hurrying down the store and unlock
the door.
Homer shook his head.
Mr. Richards himself came to greet them.
“Well, young man,” he cried, “I’ve had enough of your pesky bird
show. There’s a hundred dollars’ worth of provisions gone, to
say nothing of the trade we are turning away. Two days before
Thanksgiving, of all times in the year!”
“Good land!” whispered Mrs. Tidd. Her eyes were wandering about the
store. It was scattered from one end to the other with wasted food.
Sticky rivers trickled here and there across the floor. A small army
of clerks was hard at work sweeping and mopping.
“Where’s my turkeys?” asked Homer.
“Your turkeys, confound them!” snarled Mr. Richards. “They’re safe
and sound in their crate in my back store, all but that blasted old
gobbler you call Dan’l Webster. He’s doing his stunts on a top shelf.
We found him there tearing cereal packages into shreds. For mercy’s
sake, go and see if you can’t get him down. He has almost pecked the
eyes out of every clerk who has tried to lay a finger on him. I’d
like to wring his ugly neck.”
Mr. Richard’s face grew red as the comb of Dan’l Webster himself.
Homer and his mother dashed across the store. High above their heads
strutted Dan’l Webster with a slow, stately tread. Occasionally he
peered down at the ruin and confusion below, commenting upon it with
a lordly, satisfied gobble.
“Dan’l Webster,” called Homer, coaxingly, “good old Dan’l, come an’
see me.”
The boy slipped cautiously along to where a step-ladder stood.
“Dan’l,” he called persuasively, “wouldn’t you like to come home,
Dan’l?”
Dan’l perked down with pleased recognition in his eyes. Homer crept
up the ladder. He was preparing to lay a hand on one of Dan’l’s black
legs when the turkey hopped away with a triumphant gobble, and went
racing gleefully along the wide shelf. A row of bottles filled with
salad-dressing stood in Dan’l’s path. He cleared them out of the way
with one energetic kick. They tumbled to a lower shelf; their yellow
contents crept in a sluggish stream toward the mouth of a tea-box.
“I’ll have that bird shot!” thundered Mr. Richards. “That’s all there
is about it.”
“Wait a minute, sir,” pleaded Mrs. Tidd. “Homer’ll get him.”
Dan’l Webster would neither be coaxed nor commanded. He wandered
up and down the shelf, gobbling vociferously into the faces of the
excited mob.
“Henry, go and get a pistol,” cried Mr. Richards, turning to one of
his clerks.
“Homer,”--Mrs. Tidd clutched the boy’s arm,--“why don’t you make
b’lieve you’re shootin’ Dan’l? Maybe he’ll lie down, so you can git
him.”
Homer called for a broom. He tossed it, gun fashion, across his
shoulder, and crept along slowly, sliding a ladder before him to the
spot where the turkey stood watching with intent eyes. He put one
foot upon the lowest step, then he burst out in a spirited whistle.
It was “Marching through Georgia.” The bird stared at him fixedly.
“Bang!” cried Homer, and he pointed the broom straight at the
recreant turkey.
Dan’l Webster dropped stiff. A second later Homer had a firm grasp of
the scaly legs. Dan’l returned instantly to life, but the rebellious
head was tucked under his master’s jacket. Dan’l Webster thought he
was being strangled to death.
“There!” cried Homer, triumphantly. He closed the lid of the poultry
crate, and wiped the perspiration from his forehead. “There! I guess
you won’t get out again.”
He followed Mr. Richards to the front of the store to view the
devastation.
“Who’d have thought turkeys could have ripped up strong wire like
that?” cried the enraged market man, pointing to the shattered door.
“I guess Dan’l began the mischief,” said Homer soberly; “he’s awful
strong.”
“I’m sorry I ever laid eyes on Dan’l!” exclaimed Mr. Richards. “I’ll
hate to see Finch. He’ll be in on the 4.20 train. He’s conservative;
he never had any use for the turkey show.”
“When did you find out that they--what had happened?” asked Homer
timidly.
“At five o’clock. Two of the men got here early. They telephoned
me. I never saw such destruction in my life. Your turkeys had
sampled most everything in the store, from split peas to molasses.
What they didn’t eat they knocked over or tore open. I guess they
won’t need feeding for a week. They’re chuckful of oatmeal, beans,
crackers, peanuts, pickles, toothpicks, prunes, soap, red herrings,
cabbage--about everything their crops can hold.”
“I’m awfully sorry,” faltered Homer.
“So am I,” said Mr. Richards resolutely. “Now, the best thing you can
do is to take your flock and clear out. I’ve had enough of performing
turkeys.”
Homer and his mother waited at the depot for the 11 o’clock train.
Beside them stood a crate filled with turkeys that wore a well-fed,
satisfied expression. Somebody tapped Homer on the shoulder.
“You’re the boy who does the stunts with turkeys, aren’t you?” asked
a well-dressed man with a silk hat, and a flower in his buttonhole.
“Yes,” answered the boy, wonderingly.
“I’ve been hunting for you. That was a great rumpus you made at Finch
& Richards’. The whole town’s talking about it.”
“Yes,” answered Homer again, and he blushed scarlet.
“Taking your turkeys home?”
Homer nodded.
“I’ve come to see if we can keep them in town a few days longer.”
The boy shook his head vigorously. “I don’t want any more turkey
shows.”
“Not if the price is big enough to make it worth your while?”
“No!” said Homer sturdily.
“Let us go into the station and talk it over.”
* * * * *
On Thanksgiving afternoon the Colonial Theater, the best vaudeville
house in the city, held a throng that was dined well, and was happy
enough to appreciate any sort of fun. The children--hundreds of
them--shrieked with delight over every act. The women laughed,
the men applauded with great hearty hand-claps. A little buzz of
excitement went round the house when, at the end of the fourth turn,
two boys, instead of setting up the regulation big red number,
displayed a brand new card. It read: “Extra Number--Homer Tidd and
his Performing Turkeys.” A shout of delighted anticipation went up
from the audience. Every paper in town had made a spectacular story
of the ruin at Finch & Richards’. Nothing could have been so splendid
a surprise. Everybody broke into applause, everybody except one
little woman who sat in the front row of the orchestra. Her face was
pale, her hands clasped, and unclasped each other tremulously.
“Homer, boy,” she whispered to herself.
The curtain rolled up. The stage was set for a realistic farmyard
scene. The floor was scattered with straw, an old pump leaned over
in one corner, hay tumbled untidily from a barn-loft, a coop with
a hen and chickens stood by the fence. From her stall stared a
white-faced cow; her eyes blinked at the glare of the footlights. The
orchestra struck up a merry tune; the cow uttered an astonished moo;
then in walked a sturdy lad with fine, broad shoulders, red hair,
and freckles. His boots clumped, his blue overalls were faded, his
sweater had once been red. At his heels stepped six splendid turkeys,
straight in line, every one with its eyes on the master. Homer never
knew how he did it. Two minutes earlier he had said to the manager,
desperately: “I’ll cut an’ run right off as soon as I set eyes on
folks.” Perhaps he drew courage from the anxious gaze in his mother’s
eyes. Hers was the only face he saw in the great audience. Perhaps it
was the magnificent aplomb of the turkeys that inspired him. They
stepped serenely, as if walking out on a gorgeously lighted stage was
an every-day event in their lives. Anyhow, Homer threw up his head,
and led the turkey march round and round past the footlights, till
the shout of applause dwindled into silence. The boy threw back his
head and snapped his fingers. The turkeys retreated to form in line
at the back of the stage.
“Gettysburg,” cried Homer, pointing to a stately, plump hen.
Gettysburg stepped to the center of the stage. “How many kernels of
corn have I thrown you, Getty?” he asked.
The turkey turned to count them, with her head cocked reflectively on
one side. Then she scratched her foot on the floor.
“One, two, three, four, five!”
“Right. Now you may eat them, Getty.”
Gettysburg wore her new-won laurels with an excellent grace. She
jumped through a row of hoops, slid gracefully about the stage on a
pair of miniature roller-skates; she stepped from stool to chair,
from chair to table, in perfect time with Homer’s whistle,
and a low strain of melody from the orchestra. She danced a stately
jig on the table, then, with a satisfied cluck, descended on the
other side to the floor. Amanda Ann, Mehitable, Nancy, and Farragut
achieved their triumphs in a slow dance made up of dignified hops
and mazy turns. They stood in a decorous line awaiting the return
of their master, for Homer had dashed suddenly from the stage. He
reappeared, holding his head up proudly. Now he wore the blue uniform
and jaunty cap of a soldier boy; a gun leaned on his shoulder.
The orchestra put all its vigor, patriotism, and wind into “Marching
through Georgia.”
Straight to Homer’s side when they heard his whistle, wheeled the
turkey regiment, ready to keep step, to fall in line, to march
and countermarch. Only one feathered soldier fell. It was Dan’l
Webster. At a bang from Homer’s rifle he dropped stiff and stark.
From children here and there in the audience came a cry of horror.
They turned to ask in frightened whispers if the turkey was “truly
shooted.” As if to answer the question, Dan’l leaped to his feet.
Homer pulled a Stars and Stripes from his pocket, and waved it
enthusiastically; then the orchestra dashed into “Yankee Doodle.” It
awoke some patriotic spirit in the soul of Dan’l Webster. He left his
master, and, puffing himself to his stateliest proportions, stalked
to the footlights to utter one glorious, soul-stirring gobble. The
curtain fell, but the applause went on and on and on! At last, out
again across the stage came Homer, waving “Old Glory.” Dan’l Webster,
Gettysburg, Amanda Ann, Nancy, Mehitable and Farragut followed in
a triumphal march. Homer’s eyes were bent past the footlights,
searching for the face of one little woman. This time the face was
one radiant flush, and her hands were adding their share to the
deafening applause.
“Homer, boy,” she said fondly. This time she spoke aloud, but nobody
heard it. An encore for the “Extra Turn” was so vociferous, it almost
shook the plaster from the ceiling.